


Your Knife Across My Skin

by Fearful_Captain_Biff_Elderberry



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Arson, Bloodplay, Emotional Manipulation, Knifeplay, M/M, Panic Attacks, Scarification, Sexual Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fearful_Captain_Biff_Elderberry/pseuds/Fearful_Captain_Biff_Elderberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Stiles,' She said suddenly serious, 'What is this?' She held up a little black badge case and flipped it open. Inside it was Derek’s FBI badge. 'You can’t kill a fed.' She told him, like she was disciplining a small child. 'We can’t make it personal for them.'</p><p>'We’re wanted murders with over 40 kills in 5 states,' Stiles replied, rolling his eyes, 'Pretty sure it’s personal already. Besides it’s Derek Hale. He left us all to die. He deserves it.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Knife Across My Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reeby10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeby10/gifts).



> So this is a very belated birthday fic for Reeby10. I started writing it about 3 days before her birthday when I had the idea for a Stiles+Lydia serial killer AU, and thought I would write just one or two scenes for it, not 8000 words. I am relatively happy with it, but I might come back and write a few prequels/sequels, since I don't think the overall story is complete. 
> 
> I am extremely serious about all the warnings on this fic! Please read them! I'm going to break them down in the end author's note so if there's something you think may be questionable for you to read, you can reference that for a better idea of what there is. 
> 
> Timeline wise, this doesn't fit into TW cannon very well. For the one scene that involves the pack I choose mostly season 2 characters (since I'm pretty far behind and haven't watched since about mid season 3). But if you get to that scene and go "what where is so and so?" chances are they don't exist in this fic.

**March 11**

Stiles sat glumly at the bar, ignoring the pulsing music around him. Despite his best efforts he wasn’t having any luck finding a guy. The club was half empty. Maybe it was the town, he thought to himself, swirling his cup slightly, or maybe it’s because the Murder Siblings were supposedly in the area.

Not that anyone had died yet, Stiles was sure of that. But some genius had plotted out the path the siblings were taking based on their last kills, at least the ones the media had reported. Stiles reasoned that there were at least 10 more that the feds must be covering up, and maybe a few that hadn’t been connected. The path had pointed to this town.

Stiles hadn’t know that when he and Lydia arrived or he would have driven on and not stopped here. But they were here and really he should make the best of it. They could move on in a few days easily, but going in a different direction, far away from what the internet dude said was supposed to happen.

Stiles downed his drink before taking one last look around the club. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a waste. There was another club down the street he could try.

However right before he gave up Stiles saw him, sitting in a back corner, staring glumly at his beer. Without even thinking about it Stiles was up and headed that way.

“Hey there stranger,” Stiles said, flopping into the chair across from him. Derek Hale looked up sharply.

“You... You’re alive?” He asked, shock written across his face.

“Of course. I don’t die that easily,” Stiles replied.

“But the-”

“We’re not talking about it,” Stiles growled, suddenly serious, “If you’re going to bring _that_ up then I’m going to go find someone else to buy me a drink. Or we can have some fun and pretend we don’t know each other. Which will it be?”

Derek was silent for a minute, before motioning the waitress over. “What are you drinking?” he asked Stiles.

“Whiskey,” Stiles replied, with a smile.

The evening went very well. They drank, and talked, and danced. Stiles found that Derek liked having him close. While they were sitting at the table Derek kept finding ways to touch Stiles, bumping their feet together, or jostling his knee, just simple things to check and see that Stiles was really real and not just some figment of his own tortured soul. They were swaying out on the dance floor, when Stiles decided it was time to make his move.

“Do you wanna go somewhere with me?” He whispered in Derek’s ear.

Derek nodded eagerly. Stiles smiled back at him. It was a little too wide, a little too much teeth, but Derek hardly noticed as he followed Stiles out of the club.

Stiles led him to that old beat up jeep he used to drive. Derek buckled himself in and got a whiff of blood. But it was old- at least half a month. Stiles must have just gotten a nosebleed, or cut himself a few days ago, Derek reasoned, trying to tune out the cloyingness of it, and how there was too much to have just come from Stiles.

Everything was going great until Derek enters the motel room. Then Stiles turned around, blew powdered wolfsbane in his face and Derek dropped like a rock.

Stiles giggled softly looking at the unconscious man. Earlier he would have been glad to just get anyone back here, but now he has Derek-fucking-Hale, and he hadn’t even suspected a thing.

When Derek finally came to the first thing he noticed was that a thick cotton something was shoved in his mouth. He prodded it with his tongue trying to dislodge whatever it is, but he concluded that it was not going anywhere. He also realized, based on the smell and taste that they’re his socks, which was exceptionally gross, but he had bigger things to worry about like why they’re in his mouth and not on his feet.

The second thing Derek realized is that his hands were tied above his head to the headboard of the bed. He couldn’t remember being in bed before... Stiles knocked him out? He must be remembering that wrong. Stiles had seemed happy to see him. Derek tested the ropes, pulling. But he got no where. He tried to shift, thinking he could slice the rope with a claw but nothing.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Derek looked up sharply to see Stiles sitting in the chair across from the bed, sharpening a knife on a leather strap. The long tip of the knife gleamed in the dim light of the hotel room, throwing shadows across the walls as Stiles pulled it through the strap. The handle was wood, well worn and stained with the blood of many kills.

“Don’t try to shift to get out of that,” Stile told him, “Wolfsbane rope dipped in mountain ash. You can’t wolf out with that. You’re just as useless as the rest of us humans. Now we’re going to have a little fun.” He dropped the leather strap and approached the bed.

He stopped however when a key turned in the lock and the door opened.

“God this town is a bust,” Lydia told him, as she walked in the door. “Went to three different clubs and no one would buy me a drink.” She dropped the keys and her clutch on the desk. “Oh, but it looks like you got lucky!” She barely glanced over at Derek and Stiles before rifling through all the things that Stiles had emptied out of Derek’s pockets and left on the desk. She casually opened up his wallet and pocketed all the money he had been carrying. She smirked when a condom fell out. “Hoping to get lucky?” She asked him.

“Stiles,” She said suddenly serious, “What is this?” She held up a little black badge case and flipped it open. Inside it was Derek’s FBI badge. “You can’t kill a fed.” She told him, like she was disciplining a small child. “We can’t make it personal for them.”

“We’re wanted murders with over 40 kills in 5 states,” Stiles replied, rolling his eyes, “Pretty sure it’s personal already. Besides it’s Derek-fucking-Hale. He left us all to die. He deserves it.”

“We don’t talk about that,” Lydia deadpanned, walking over to the closet. She pulled out an even skimpier dress than the one she had on and began to change. “Look I’m going to go out and find us a real treat. I’ll try to pick up some john who thinks he can buy me for the night. You clean up your mess.” She flapped her hand at Derek. Stiles sneered at her as she left the room.

“Don’t worry about her,” Stiles said turning to Derek again, “I’ll calm her down. We’ll still get our fun. Besides you wouldn’t report us to your federal friends now would you? After what you did to us?” He toed on his shoes and followed her out the door.

Derek let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He twisted trying to dislodge himself from the ropes, but it was a useless attempt. Apparently Stiles had gotten very good at tying knots over the past few years.

Stiles had definitely changed a lot, not that it surprised Derek. After everything. He hadn’t even known that Stiles and Lydia were even alive.

It was a new year's eve party three years ago. That was when everything went to hell. Derek had been sent out to get some last minute party supplies. Everyone had been there and they had been alive and happy when he left.

But when he came back the house had been in flames. Derek had thought that the new hunters in town would at least play by the code. That Stiles, Lydia, and the Sheriff would all be spared, but apparently not.

Derek had gone through the motions of dealing with it. He had taken care of everything. He called 911, he dealt with the police report, he even made all the funeral arrangements. It was all too painful for him to really accept. It was hard enough to lose one family to a house fire, but now two?

After that he couldn’t start another pack. Pack had taken on a new meaning. One that was filled with the stench of death and burned flesh. He gave up the alphahood that had fallen to him once Scott had died, and become an omega. He had already finished a degree in criminology before he had ever come back to Beacon Hills all those years ago, so getting a job was easy. Since then he had been living as a regular human, avoiding other werewolves, or those who knew anything about the supernatural. Until now.

He now knew that Lydia and Stiles were the Murder Siblings, despite not actually being related. He knew that they were the serial killers he was on the task force to catch. But now it looked more like he was going to be one of their victims than their captor, and all he could do was wait for them to come back.

**March 12**

The next morning Derek woke to white hot pain lacing up from his side. He shuddered awake, the memory of last night hitting him like a gunshot. His arms were still tied to the headboard and were frighteningly numb. But the first issue to deal with that morning was the pain ripping across his flesh again.

He looked over to see Stiles sitting next to him, watching blood pool in the fresh cut. He had a look of utter concentration on his face as he watched the blood slowly drip down Derek’s side. When the blood finally stopped and the cut began to coagulate, Stiles raised the blade and swiped a new cut that had Derek gritting his teeth around the sock still wedged in his mouth.

“Good you’re awake,” Stiles said softly, distantly like he was barely there himself, “I’d hate for you to miss out on all the fun.” Stiles looked him straight in the eyes while making a particularly deep cut.

“Lydia said she thought you might not even be a werewolf anymore, after what you did to us,” Stiles told him, looking back down at the cut, watching the blood well up, “She stayed up all night last night researching you, you know?... Well after... but you don’t want to hear about that, I’m sure. She couldn’t find any evidence of you forming a new pack, or even running under the full moon. Of course you became the Alpha when Scott died, didn’t you?” He dug the knife in deeper, twisting it around to create a swirling cut across Derek’s skin. “But you aren’t anymore. I can see it, every time I cut you and your eyes flash.” He made another swipe of the blade, finishing off whatever pattern he had been carving. “I wonder, Derek, are they bluer now? They seem to be. Is it because of Scott? or Isaac?” Rage slowly filled his voice, “or my father? Do they show your regret that you weren’t there to save us like you should have been? That you let them kill us all?” Stiles wiped the edge of the blade on Derek’s shirt, cleaning the blood off of it.

“You’re pathetic you know,” Stiles told him, standing up. “You can’t even look me in the eyes can you? You deserve this.”

  
Stiles was right, Derek thought looking away. He should have been there. He should have protected his pack. If only he had come back a few minutes earlier. He could have saved them, or at least died with them.

Derek glanced over at Stiles as he put the knife away in his duffle bag. He watched as Stiles’ adjusted himself, shifting his cock until it was comfortable in his jeans. Something about that encounter had apparently turned him on. Derek logged it away as important information for later. Not that he thought he was going to escape with his life, but it was good to know that they had been right. His team had already guessed that at least one of the Murder Siblings had a fetish for blood or knives, after all, all the corpses they had recovered had been thoroughly sliced up.

Derek shuddered remember one of the bodies they had been shown. The man had been sliced until there was almost no unmarred skin. It had almost been beautiful. Was that what Derek’s fate entailed? Was Stiles going to make him into one of his works of art before finally letting him die?

Derek’s musing were interrupted when the key turned in the lock and Lydia walked in, carrying a bag of fast food, and two sodas. She set them down on the table and glanced over at Derek.

“You’ve started?” she asked, looking at the blood still oozing sluggishly from Derek’s side. Stiles nodded silently. “So you decided-?” a sharp look shut her up.

“Whatever, this is on you,” She told him. “Now come eat before it all gets cold.”

Derek watched them as they pulled out containers upon containers of food. He took a moment to roll his shoulders, trying to work the numbness out of his arms, but never looking away from the two serial killers in the room.

Their food smelled so good. Derek tried hard not to think about the last time he had eaten. It hadn’t been that long ago, he reasoned, less than 24 hours. He could survive worse. Kate had refused to feed him for longer back when she was holding him under the remains of his old family home. Unfortunately his stomach betrayed him, growling in hunger. Stiles eyes snapped to him glaring in anger.

“Have you fed him or given him water?” Lydia asked Stiles. His gaze turned to her, still just as heated as it had been at Derek. “Just saying. You don’t want him to expire before your done.” Derek almost chuckled to himself. Wouldn’t that be a way to go. Dying from dehydration before the serial killers can get to you themselves. It would be just his luck.

Stiles let out a dramatic sigh before getting up and filling a glass of water from the sink. He stopped by his bag and picked up the blade, carrying both to sit over by Derek. He sat the water down on the bedside table and grabbed the knife.

“If you scream I will kill you,” Stiles told him, no humor in his voice. He waited for Derek’s nod before grabbing the sock in his mouth and pulling it out.

Derek was almost amazed at the relief in his jaw. He hadn’t realized that the gag was putting that much strain on his muscles. He worked it a few times but all too quickly Stiles was holding the cup of water to his mouth and pouring it in.

It was too much as once, and Derek started to cough.

“Pathetic,” Stiles commented glaring over at Lydia, “Guess he’s not thirsty after all.”

Derek just managed to clear his windpipe as the socks were shoved back into his mouth, quickly absorbing whatever liquid was left in his mouth.

“We need to move again,” Lydia states as Stiles rejoins her at the table. “There were a couple of men in suits at the McDonalds. I heard them talking about how their friend who hadn’t checked in last night.”

“Feds?” Stiles asked, tersely.

“Have to be,” Lydia replied, “They’ll find his car at the club by tonight I think, and then the little present you just had to leave in there... what was his name again? Jack? John? Joe?”

“Something like that,” Stiles replied.

Derek felt queasy listening to their conversation. So they had managed to go out and find another kill last night. He thought through the case, wondering just how long he had. There had been an initial start up period, where they only killed once every two months. Those had been the earliest and sloppiest. By now they were up to every 2 weeks, and had maintained that frequency for about six months now. If they had killed last night then Derek had two weeks before his own demise. How much torture could they fit in that time, he wondered.

Of course that assumed that he was going to fall into their pattern. Maybe they would find some fresh hell to bury him in. Would they even leave their calling card, a dried wolfsbane flower? Would his co-workers know that he had died at their hands?

Stiles left him alone all afternoon, much to Derek’s relief.He took his time working through every muscle, stretching it however he could, from the tip of his fingers to his toes. If he ever had the chance to escape he needed to be limber and able to move, not a cramped stiff mess.

He was woken from a light doze to the feeling of his hands being untied. He glanced over at the clock and read 11 pm. Stiles dropped his arms, smirking at the pained look on Derek’s face as stiff muscles protested.

“We’re moving,” Stiles told him shortly, “Be good or I will kill you.” Stiles tied Derek’s wrists in front of him with the wolfsbane ropes before moving onto his feet, hobble tying them.

“Walk like normal,” He told Derek leading him to the door. It was a short distance to from the hotel room door, to the jeep. But Stiles couldn’t risk anyone in the neighborhood seeing and calling the police. They had managed to keep anyone from knowing much more than they had wanted them to so far, and he wasn’t going to risk that just for some fun.

Derek tried not to trip as he followed Stiles to the jeep. Stiles opened the back door and guided Derek in. He secured Derek’s hands to the back of the headrest in front of him, and then headed around to the driver side.

Derek realized that they had already packed everything. He must have slept heavier than he thought. Maybe they had drugged him. That was more logical than him falling asleep while being held captive by known volatile serial killers.

They drove through the night. With every mile marker Derek watched his chance of rescue slip farther and farther away. He realized that Stiles was going against the pattern, veering off far left from where the statistics said they would go next. The FBI wouldn’t even be looking for them there - not until his body shows up in a dumpster that is.

Around 1 am Stiles pulled into a gas station. He glanced over at Lydia who was snoozing lightly in the front seat, then back at Derek.

“Do you need to go?” Stiles asked him, softly, nodding his head at the gas station.

Derek considered for a moment. It could be a trap. Either answer could be incorrect, and send Stiles into a fit of rage. Derek didn’t need anymore cuts or bruises, his side was aching enough as is.

“Come on, man, I don’t need you peeing in the car,” Stiles huffed, “Do you need to go or not?”

“Yes,” Derek said slowly, cautiously. He watched Stiles face looking for any sign that he had angered him with his answer. Stiles got out of the car and came around to Derek’s side.

“Listen very carefully,” He told Derek, pulling a gun out of his waistband holster. “I’m going to cut you loose and you’re going to go inside, do whatever you need to, and come back out. If you try to run or get him to call the cops I will kill both of you,” He nodded his head at the lone cashier in the gas station. “Do you understand me?”

“Yea,” Derek breathed. Stiles grabbed his knife and cut the bonds that were holding him. He left the rope twisted around his wrist, like some sort of bracelet, limiting Derek’s ability to shift.

Derek toyed with the idea of trying to loosen them as he entered the gas station. If he could get out of them then he could shift. He could stop Stiles before he even got a shot off. Of course there was always the possibility that he wouldn’t and the cashier would be dead. Could Derek take that? Could he face being responsible for another death?

In the end he decided against it. There would be another chance, one that wouldn’t put anyone but himself in harm's way. He left the bathroom, head down, refusing to even make eye contact with the cashier, just in case the FBI had released his picture in part of a missing persons case. Stiles was in the gas station, watching him. A smirk crossed his face as he watched Derek go meekly back to the Jeep and crawl into the back seat.

Stiles return to the jeep a few minutes later, a bag of food in hand.

“Here,” he said, tossing Derek a bag of beef jerky and a bottle of water. Surprise crossed Derek’s face. He hadn’t been expecting that. He waited for Stiles to at least tie him to the front chair, but it never came. Stiles started the jeep and started to drive.

**March 21**

Derek awoke to sharp pain cutting into his chest. This had started to become a ritual. Every morning Stiles woke him up by continuing the design he was cutting into Derek’s chest. He had worked up over his stomach and onto his chest.

The worrying thing Derek thought, waiting between strokes of the knife to stretch, was that he was actually starting to enjoy it. Stiles was always careful to never go too deep, just deep enough to draw blood. Derek wondered if it would scar over? Would he be turned into a living piece of art? Well, at least living for now.

“Good morning,” Stiles said steadily, drawing the knife across Derek’s chest. He was straddling Derek’s hips, a position he had taken a few sessions before, claiming it was easier to reach. “Did you sleep well?”

Derek nodded. He raised his arms above his head, holding onto the headboard. This was the third hotel they had held him in. After the second one Stiles had stopped tying him to things, just reiterated that he would kill Derek if he tried to escape. The ropes that bound him to his human form had been replaced by a thick twine cord around his neck. Lydia had tied it, Stiles told him, using the same wolfsbane and mountain ash mixture that limited his shifting.

And Derek appreciated it. He had tried to give up on being a werewolf, but he couldn’t. He had researched all the spells and potions and mystic rites, but none of them would rid him of his wolf. But these two humans had figured it out. They had calmed the beast inside of him, and rendered him wonderfully human.

Above him Stiles stifled a moan, drawing Derek’s attention back to the man on top of him. He could see how aroused Stiles was and it made Derek happy to know that he was the cause of it.

Derek couldn't help himself. He wanted to make Stiles even happier. He ground his hips upwards, creating friction between them.

All too quickly Derek realized what he had done. He was never allowed to take the control away from Stiles. He held his breath, watching the other man's face, looking for any sign of anger.

"Do you want to play?" Stiles asked slowly, looking down, "Are you getting off on me slicing you up?" Stiles ground his hips down against Derek. He reached the knife out and dragged the flat of it down Derek's chest.

Derek bit back a moan as the cold steel ran over his skin. It left a smear of blood, his blood, in it's wake. He shivered slightly, feeling his own arousal grow.

Stiles dragged the blade across his chest again, creating a new line that welled up and bleed over. Derek bit his lip, trying to resist the urge to grind up against Stiles.

He lasted two more strokes of the blade before his hips involuntarily bucked, searching for more friction.

"Do it again," Stiles ordered, knife poised over Derek's chest. Derek didn't hesitate, slamming his hips up as Stiles brought the knife back down adding another line to his masterpiece. Derek moaned. The mix of pain and pleasure was exquisite. Between the physical sensation and knowledge that he was helping Stiles, Derek felt like he was on top of the world.

"Again," Stiles demanded. Another cut was added to Derek's chest. Stiles leaned over and licked over one of the lines, taking in the blood and sweat that covered Derek's chest.

"You're loving this aren't you," Stiles was babbling, "Loving the pain. You deserve it." He dropped the knife to the bed, and began to rake his nails over Derek's chest, tearing scabs off the older wounds. "You're taking your punishment so well." He ground his hips down again. "Such a good little slut."

Derek lost it. His muscles spasmed as he came in his pants. Everything froze for him, and for a brief second pleasure and pain became a white hot knife through his brain. Everything was perfect, nothing was wrong.

Stiles scrambled at his own pants, in a rush to get his cock out. He gave it a few good pumps and came, shooting his load all over Derek's chest. He raked his fingers through the mess, swirling it with Derek’s blood.

“This is a good color on you,” he muttered softly, talking more to himself than to Derek.

Derek shivered, his flesh overly sensitive, after his orgasm. Stiles was tracing a new design over him, smearing the mixture of come and blood.

Stiles, finally happy with his drawing, scrambled for his cell phone on the bedside table. He took a picture of Derek’s chest, and stared at it for a few moments.

“Do you think I should send this to your FBI friends?” He asked, showing Derek the photo. Derek took it in. He looked like a fucked out mess. His arms were still held above his head, clearly not bound but still umoving. He was covered in cuts of varying size. Many of them were red and angry looking, probably infected. But the real killer was his face. Derek realized he was smiling in the photo, something he hadn’t done in years.

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Stiles continued, “Let them know you’re alive? Show them how you belong to me.” He tapped his phone a few times. “What’s their number?”  


“202-555-0187,” Derek rattled off. It was his boss’ cell phone number, he had memorized it early on.

Stiles typed the digits into his phone before pausing. He powered down his phone and slid it into his pocket.

“Though we wouldn’t want to tip them off on our location,” Stiles told him, tapping his fingers lightly up Derek’s chest, “They would try to take you away from me and we can’t have that.” Derek nodded. He didn’t want to go back. He liked it here.

Stiles slid off Derek, coming to lie beside him on the bed. He shifted around a few times, trying to get comfortable with his arms around Derek. However nothing felt quite right. He sat up and stripped his shirt off.

Derek immediately put a hand against his chest, staring at the faint scars that littered Stiles’ chest. They matched the ones that Stiles had been etching into Derek’s skin, only with much less finisse. The cuts Stiles had made on Derek’s chest were art. Each line full of grace, forming shapes that Stiles had even used hatching to shade. The scars on Stiles’ chest however were puckered and angry. It was obvious that whoever had carved them was not the artist that Stiles was.

“What happened to you?” Derek breathed, tracing a finger over one of the scars.

Rage flickered through Stiles’ eyes. In an instant he was back on top of Derek, knife pressed against his throat.

“We don’t talk about that!” Stiles yelled, breathing fast and heavy. His hand was shaking as it held the knife, nicking Derek’s throat. A small trail of blood ran from the cut. “it’s the one rule, we don’t bring it up. I’m not... I can’t...” His hand went limp and the knife slipped from his hand.

The next thing Derek knew Stiles was off him running towards the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind him. Derek followed, standing by the door listening. Stiles was gasping for breath. He was having a panic attack. The realization hit Derek like a train.

“Stiles?” Derek asked softly, rapping his knuckles sharply on the door, “Can I come in?”

“No,” Stiles replied shakily a few moments later, “Go away.”

Derek sighed, walking back into the main room. He had always just assumed that Stiles had missed the fatal New Years Eve party all those years ago. Derek thought that Stiles and Lydia must have been hiding in the front hall, or have been anywhere but the den when the hunters had attacked.

He sat on the edge of the bed and waited, lost in thought about the deaths of his last pack. He had been in such a haze afterwards that he hadn’t taken in much about it. He answered the police questions, and told the media “no comment” whenever they had called him up. They hadn’t let him identify the bodies. There wasn’t enough left of them anyways to tell.

They had told him the case was open and shut. That the fire started with a deadly mix of alcohol and cigarettes, and that it had spread to fast for anyone to escape. He knew that there was more to it. He could still smell the hunters on the charred remains. He just didn’t want to deal with it, so he let them close to the case and ignore all the signs that there was foul play.

Stiles shuffled out of the bathroom and sat on the bed next to Derek. Neither of them said anything as Stiles leaned against him.

“I-” Stiles started words getting stuck in his throat. “I think I need to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Derek replied slowly, tentatively wrapping his arm around Stiles.

“They took us by surprise,” Stiles started out, “We had no idea they were even in town yet.”

_Everything was perfect, Stiles thought, staring around the room. Somehow with Isaac and Scott in charge of decorating, things still looked good. Stiles had a sneaking suspicion that Lydia had a hand in that._

_Things had been peaceful for weeks. Chris Argent had move on from Beacon Hills, taking the threat of hunters with him. The pack was out of danger for now. Everyone important to him knew about the werewolves. It was going to be the perfect New Years Eve party._

_Stiles heard the front door open. It’s Derek, he thought as he turned to greet him. It wasn’t Derek._

_Several smoke bombs were thrown into the room - one from the window, one from the entry way and one from the back hallway. Smoke filled the room, hissing as it was released from the bombs. The smoke was filled with Wolfsbane. Scott dropped like a rock. Isaac held onto his conciousness, putting a hand over his mouth to try and resist breathing in the smoke._

_A shot rang through the room as the hunters stormed in._

“ The hunters came. They didn’t care who they killed,” Stiles continued his breath hitching slightly. He took a deep shuddering breath. “If you got in their way they shot to kill. Didn’t matter if you weren’t a werewolf or even affiliated with the pack.”

_Stiles’ dad drew his gun, but the hunter was faster._

_Stiles screamed as his dad hit the floor. He raced over to his side. He tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too late, Stiles could already tell. His father’s blood covered his hands, and soaked into his clothing. He heard his father’s last few rattling breaths before everything was silent._

_The next thing Stiles knew he was being roughly yanked to his feet and forced to join his friends on the back wall. Erica was bound with ropes covered in wolfsbane flowers, and soaked black with mountain ash. Her once white dress was now smeared with ash and blood. Stiles realized vaguely that the blood wasn’t hers, which meant it had to be Boyd’s. He glanced around but saw Boyd nowhere. A sickening clench of his stomach told him that Boyd must be dead._

_Isaac was propped against the wall next to her. He had been one of the last to be knocked out by the wolfsbane smoke bomb and had gotten a bullet in the side for it. It oozed black goo sluggishly. He was still out and dangerously pale._

_“Let me help him, I’m a nurse,” Melissa begged, trying to get over to Isaac. One of the hunters sneered, and pushed her away from the teen._

_“Leave him,” he told her, “Get in line with the others.”_

_“Just let me stop the bleeding,” Melissa pushed on, trying once more to get to Isaac._

_A gunshot rang through the air and Melissa stopped moving. Blood pooled under her where she lay, eye wide and staring._

_“I told you to leave him,” the hunter snarled at her body, giving her one last kick before moving on._

_There was a scream at the front of the room. Scott had come to just in time to watch his mother die. He struggled against the ropes that bound him to a chair- a mocking throne for the overthrown king. The hunters laughed at his ineffective show of power. As long as the wolfsbane and mount ash ropes bound him Scott couldn’t wolf out, Stiles realized. If they wanted any fighting chance they had to get Scott free._

_Lydia was shoved into line next to Stiles. She huffed, and straightened her dress, always the queen of whatever room she entered. Despite the mayhem she was still perfectly clean and unharmed. Stiles envied her. His clothes were sticking to him as his father’s blood dried. The stench of it cloyed at his nose, bile rising in his throat._

_That was everyone, except Derek. Had he made it back in time for the massacre? Or was he still out there. Stiles had a sinking suspicion that he was already dead. The hunters were too organized. They wouldn’t have left any beta in the pack alive to tip the tables at the last minute._

“It was like it was a fucking party for them,” Stiles bit, “They didn’t care that they were standing in puddles of our blood.”

_“Werewolves of Beacon Hills,” One of the hunters began, stepping to the front of the group. “You have been found guilty of colluding with supernatural forces for the destruction of humanity. The penalty is death.” The hunters gave a cheer._

_It was surreal, Stiles realized, as the hunters broke out coolers and began to pass around drinks. They were somehow not bothered by the dead bodies on the floor, or the remnants of the pack shivering against the wall. They milled around like it was some sort of social gathering, more of a picnic than an execution._

“I thought I could get away.”

_Stiles saw his chance. All the hunters were turned away from him, mocking Scott. He could make it to the door he reasoned. He was already near the entry way. He just had to make it past Lydia, and through the front hallway and he’d be at the door. If he could get out he could call the sheriff's office. The hunters might be skilled but they were only human. They could easily be handled by a few of his father’s deputies._

_On his third step the floorboard creaked. Stiles froze. Maybe no one had heard him?_

_“_ I was wrong,” Stiles continued bitterly.

  
_His luck was not that good. Stiles was grabbed roughly by the back of his shirt and thrown into the middle of the room. He stumbled over his father’s body landing flat on his back in a pool of blood. There was a sickening squelch as his slid a few more inches._

_In an instant the hunter was on top of him, straddling his hips. Stiles wrists were pinned above his head with one of the hunter’s big meaty hands. The other hand brandished a knife in his face._

_The long steel tip gleamed as it wavered in Stiles’ face. He swallowed nervously, as the blade gracefully glided near his throat. The wood of the handle was well worn through many hunts. He had no doubt that the hunter would willingly use it._

_“Do you want to play?” The hunter slurred. He rucked up Stiles’ shirt, the flat of the knife scraping across Stiles’ chest as he went._

_Stiles sucked in a breath as the knife pierced his skin for the first time. He whimpered as the next stroke fell in quick succession. The hunter moved quickly across his skin slices varying in depth._

_“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” The hunter breathed. Stiles felt sick to his stomach as he realized the man was getting off on slashing him. The man continued cutting, paying little attention to how jagged his cuts were. “Such a good little slut.” It became obvious to Stiles that he wasn’t intended to live past this encounter._

“The hunter that caught me sliced me up,” Stiles said softly. “It was all a game to him. Lydia tried to stop him.”

_“Leave him alone!” Lydia yelled from the wall, launching herself across the room, trying to knock the hunter off Stiles. Another hunter grabbed her dress as she flew by him, and threw her off course. She landed in a heap between Stiles and Scott, her dress torn off her shoulder._

_“Humans in a pack are so useless,” the man chuckled, kicking at Lydia. He grabbed her hair, pulling her up, and pushed his gun against her lips. “If your wolves couldn’t stop us, what made you think you could, hmm?” He pushed harder, forcing the gun past her lips. He laughed as a sob broke free from Lydia’s throat. “So useless.” He let go of her hair, letting her fall in a heap, her head cracking painfully against the floor._

“But there was nothing she could do. She was powerless.” Stiles chucked dryly. “You know how much she hates that.

_The man on top of Stiles joined in the laughter, finally turn back to Stiles and making the last few marks._

_“Do you know what these markings are?” the man on top of Stiles asked, releasing Stiles’ wrists to jester at the marks he had carved. “They tell the world that you’re tainted by wolves. Everyone will know who you ran with.” he reached down for his beer, dropping the knife to his side as he turned to the hunter by Lydia._

_“What do you want to do with them?” He asked._

“But you can’t keep Lydia down for long,” Stiles smiled slightly.

_Lydia looked pleadingly at Stiles, blood dripping down her face from where it hit the floor. When his eyes met hers she glanced down at the knife, then back at him, hoping to convey her plan. She barely nodded before glancing up to where Scott was tied. Stiles looked up at the hunter on top of him, checking to make sure the man was still distracted. They would only have a few seconds, before the hunters would subdue them again, and it would only get worse. But if it worked they could be free._

_Stiles grabbed at the knife, biting back as hiss as the blade bit into his hand. He slid it across the floor to Lydia who was up and running as soon as she had the knife._

_“Why you little-” the hunter on top of Stiles pulled his gun from his holster and pressed it against Stiles’ temple and then nothing._

“The fire was an accident,” Stiles continued, “It started in the chaos that followed us saving Scott.”

_A howl ripped through the room as the hunter on top of Stiles was thrown off him. There was a sick sound as Scott ripped the man’s throat out. Lydia tossed the knife across the floor to Stiles, who grabbed it and ran to the back wall. He sliced the ropes off Erica, releasing her into her wolf form._

_Chaos reigned as the hunters dropped their drinks and grabbed for their weapons. One hunter had been about to lite his cigarette. The match fell to the floor as Erica tackled him, her claws going through his chest. A puddle of vodka ignited instantly when the match hit it, spreading through room. The curtains caught and then the whole room was ablaze. The hunters fled the house, trying to escape the two enraged werewolves, and growing fire._

_“Come on!” Stiles grabbed Lydia’s hand and pulled her towards the front door the hunter’s knife still grasped desperately in his hand. They would regroup later. Scott would grab Isaac and they would all make it out he knew it._

_Stiles grabbed his Jeep keys and jumped in the drivers seat. Lydia barely got the passenger door closed before Stiles was peeling out of the driveway. The hunters could be right behind them. They had to go now._

_“_ We thought the rest of the pack was right behind us, but we were wrong.”

_Stiles didn’t stop driving till they were three towns over. He pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned gas station and finally breathed easy. They were alive. They were survivors. They had been decimated before. The pack would rebuild like it always did._

_It was then that Stiles realized what the black line they had jumped over on their way out of the house was. He started to laugh uncontrollably. He looked over at Lydia and she began to laugh as well, understanding flashing across her face._

_The pack was dead. They were all that was left. There was nothing to go back to. Still laughing Stiles started the car and continued driving. They were free._

“Mountain ash?” Derek asked. The perfect line of ash around the perimeter of the house was one of the many clues that he had opted to ignore in his grief. He didn’t need confirmation that it was a massacre.

“We didn’t even see it as we ran,” Stiles admitted.“We were so focussed on saving ourselves that we didn’t realize they were trapped.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, pulling Stiles closer. He leaned over and kissed Stiles temple.

Stiles gave him a rueful smile, but said nothing. How could he say he wasn’t?

**March 26**

It was too easy, Stiles thought as he lead him into the hotel room. He was pushed up against the door as soon as it was closed. Stiles moaned as his throat was kissed and nipped at. He eyed the bed critically. They needed to get this show on the road.

Stiles slipped around him, giving a slight smirk at the desperate look he got. He flopped down on the bed, patting the spot next to him to entice his partner over. He laughed as he was practically tackled. Stiles looked up from the flat of his back at the man on top of him.

“Is this good for you,” he asked Stiles grinding his hips down. He didn’t hear the closet door open behind him, or the slow careful footsteps approaching.

“Not quite,” Stiles replied, smirking at something behind him.

“Wha-” The man’s sentenced was cut off as Derek yanked his head back and dragged Stiles’ knife across his throat slicing open the carotid artery. The man dropped like a rock on to of Stiles, his blood soaking into the bed and Stiles clothes. Stiles let off a sharp moan, shivering slightly as the blood flowed over him.

“Come here,” Stiles told Derek, as he shoved the dead body off himself. Derek crawled onto the bed, dropping the still bloody knife on the bedside table.

Stiles pulled Derek down on top of him, as soon as the other man was close enough. Blood soaked through Derek’s shirt their chests pressed together. He crashed their mouths together in a kiss that was more teeth than lip. His hips bucked, searching for friction.

"Get this off," Stiles told Derek, pulling at Derek's shirt. Derek didn't hesitate to sit up and yank his shirt off. Stiles licked his lips looking over the various cuts and half formed scars that littered the other man's body. He traced his fingers across one of the lines. He dug his nail in, ripping off the scab. Derek hissed slightly at the pain but didn't move to stop Stiles. He would let Stiles do whatever he wanted to him, even if it was to spill all his blood.

Stiles traced one of the lines down to the edge of Derek's pants before deftly undoing the button and pulling down the zipper. He paused, looking up at the other man before pulling down his pants and underwear in one deft motion. He found a new line to follow, across Derek's chest and down his stomach, his fingers jumping off the line to dance down his cock, tapping it thoughtfully, before ghosting over his balls. Stiles glanced up at Derek's face and almost laughed at the look of anticipation the other man wore.

"Get out of those and down on the bed face up," Stiles demanded, sitting up himself. He quickly shucked his own clothing, before crawling back over Derek to straddle his hips. Stiles leaned forward and kissed him, reveling in the feeling of warm flesh against flesh.

"You can touch me you know," he muttered in Derek's ear, before biting lightly at the lobe. Derek's hands instantly shot to his sides, grasping at Stiles, and pulling him down so their cocks rubbed together. Stiles pulled back sitting up slightly. His hands were covered in blood that had soaked into the mattress. He painted them down Derek's chest, leaving dark red streaks across his flesh.

Stiles let out a moan at all the blood. It was intoxicating. He could feel it on Derek's hands as they ran up and down his sides, see it on Derek's chest, and smell it permeating the air. It was perfect. He reached for the nightstand and grabbed the new bottle of lube he had bought 2 days ago. He popped the cap and poured a generous amount on his fingers. He reached behind himself and began to slowly work one finger into his hole.

"Jerk yourself," Stiles commanded, scooting back slightly to give Derek good access to his cock. Derek got a wicked grin on his face as he pressed the palm of his hand into the puddle soaking into the mattress to pick up more blood before reaching for his cock, and painting it red with a deft stroke of his hand.

"Good boy," Stiles smirked, watching with fascination as the pattern of blood changed with each stroke.

Stiles withdrew his fingers from his ass once he felt fully prepared. He slapped Derek’s hand away from his cock.

“Hold still,” he ordered, rearranging himself onto of Derek. He sunk down on his cock, torturously slow.

Derek bit back a moan as his cock was encased in warm heat. His hands gravitated to Stiles’ hips, touching just enough to ground himself.

“So good,” Stiles muttered, “You’re being so good for me.” Stiles bit his lips as he bottomed out. He gave himself barely a moment to adjust before he began to ride Derek in earnest.

“Stiles,” Derek moaned, his hands now clamping down on Stiles hips, helping him rise and fall.

Stiles leaned in and kissed Derek biting his bottom lip, until he tasted blood. He smirked against his lips.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he breathed, before licking at the small trickle. He reached a hand down to his own cock and began jerking off, setting a punishing rhythm for himself. Stiles raked his free hand down Derek’s chest raising red marks with his nails and tearing at the cuts he had made.

Derek’s whine of pain was all it took for Stiles to come. His hips stuttered as his orgasm stuttered through his body. Derek thrust up one, two, three more times before his own orgasm washed over him.

“Did I do good?” Derek asked a few minutes later. Stiles was curled around him, holding him close.

“You did very good,” Stiles replied, smiling crookedly at him. His phone buzzed on the side table. He shifted, rolling over Derek to reach it.

“We have to get up,” Stiles told him, “Lydia needs help moving a body, and then we’re leaving for the next town.”

“What about that one?” Derek pointed at the deadman sprawled on the floor.

  
“Leave it,” Stiles told him, “I’m sure the maid can take care of it in the morning. Come on, we need to shower first.” Stiles headed towards the bathroom, “and in the interest of time we should totally take one together.” Derek laughed, and took off after Stiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings breakdown: 
> 
> Graphic Depictions of Violence/Major Character Death - Several characters, both OCs and main characters, are murdered throughout the fic. The most graphic murders are during Stiles flashback, and the scene directly after that when Stiles and Derek kill an OC. 
> 
> Rape/Non-con - This is a questionable warning. I don't believe that Derek can actually consent because of the Stockholm Syndrome. However he is not physically forced, just psychologically. 
> 
> Stockholm Syndrome - Throughout the fic Derek develops Stockholm Syndrome as he is held captive by Stiles and Lydia. This causes him to do things that he would otherwise not do. 
> 
> Arson - A fire is set during Stiles' flashback that kills several characters. 
> 
> Knifeplay/Bloodplay/Scarificaton - Throughout the fic Stiles cuts Derek and gets off on it. The intent is to leave scars. 
> 
> Bloodplay pt2 - During the last scene (After March 26) Stiles and Derek have sex in a puddle of blood after a killing. Blood plays a prominent role in the scene. 
> 
> Torture - In reference to the knifeplay/bloodplay/scarification warnings. Also during the flashback Stiles and Lydia are tortured by hunters to a minor degree, no worse than the earlier mentioned torture. 
> 
> Sexual violence - A minor warning in relation to the knifeplay/bloodplay/scarification, as well as a paragraph in which a character is forced to give a blowjob to a gun barrel. 
> 
> Panic Attack - When Derek asks Stiles what happened during the hunter attack it triggers a panic attack. Most of the panic attack happens off screen.


End file.
